


Primal Urges

by JacksHorriblePA



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Acting on sexual fantasies, Asphyxiation, Attention-seeking, Doctor/Patient, Hannibal is a pervert, Hannibal is unethical, Kinks, M/M, Nymphomania, Orgasm Denial, Slight Foot Fetish, Smut, Will is looking for therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21663253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacksHorriblePA/pseuds/JacksHorriblePA
Summary: Will Graham is a nymphomaniac and Hannibal Lecter is a reputable therapist that happens to be in his area.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 79





	Primal Urges

For such a popular psychiatrist, a man with so many clients, one would imagine a more crowded waiting room, or simply another soul the very least, but Will walked through the hall, laid his eyes on stained glass and cushioned furniture, and what he found was that this room seemed to be all his for the evening. That meant it was Lecter’s too.

Being Hannibal Lecter— _The Hannibal Lecter_ — one would imagine a more flattering presence of clientele. That was not the case.

Will took a deep inhale as he surveyed the room and it’s many tasteful displays.

Perhaps Doctor Lecter is just a modest man. 

Will’s phone dinged, vibrating in his hand by his side. He wiped the ball of his palm across the screen, smearing warm sweat across the protective case. Being a pillar of the psychiatric, or fucked-up-patient-community, he shouldn’t be inducing nearly this much anxiety.

_‘There will be words if he’s presumptuous or otherwise unpleasant.’_

The attempt at coarse humor isn’t lost on the recipient, though Will was sure they could sense his real displeasure with the situation, even through text. He slid his thumb across the power button, silencing the phone as he made his way across the room. The couch was smooth, tanned leather. He fell into it with an unsurprising lack of grace and snorted when he ran through this whole situation in his head again.

  
He’s never been one for therapists nor waiting rooms— anxiety inducing circumstances that often yielded no help, only furthered the problem.

And yet, here he is.

A vibration between his fingertips had him pulling up the phone, eyeing the screen for a moment before giving a halfhearted scoff.

_‘If he’s treating you he’s going to have to be a little on the weird side.’_

His hands followed the phone, tapping across its screen. Hunching over in his lap, pulling his knees up close but keeping his shoes on the floor and off the furniture. Waiting room formalities. _Tiresome_.

_‘I’m not weird. You suggested this.’_

A little cloud filled with dots, then a buzz.

_‘Because you asked. I know of him well, this could really help you.’_

_‘I don’t appreciate arrogant specialists analyzing me so they can decide what treatments I do or do not need, Alana.’_

Her response seemed quicker, though. Or maybe the truth behind it felt more sudden than the text itself.

_‘Then you wouldn’t have been searching for one to begin with.’_

Will sighed at the response, resisting the urge to click his phone off and opting instead to give his own response. Flippant, but not indifferent.

_‘Talk to you later, in session.’_

The little grey bubble screamed disbelief, a silent _‘Yeah right’_ that he could practically hear before it finally went away.

Will sighed, lifting the collar of his coat up to his forehead to wipe away the anxiety seeping through his skin. Social anxiety had never been much of an issue, but in situations like this, it never shied away from rearing its ugly head. He leaned back against the cushion, exhaling as his muscles relaxed into the leather, the pillows upon it soft on his back.

His thoughts raced, anxieties coiling around his brain, twisting and tightening until it left a pounding between his temples that had him shutting his eyes tightly. 

His eyes were forced open, though, by a sound somewhere in the room, echoing off the walls. A thud against the wall— some commotion in the next room over, perhaps. The walls in question were lined with small paintings, tasteful for the room’s professional theme. Closing his eyes once again felt more than necessary, and if he was to be the only one here, he figured why not?  
But it would be just his luck, eyes close, door opens. So despite the anxiety draining his energy and pulling at his eyelids. Blue eyes stared further unto the ceiling. Waiting room formalities. Tiresome.

  
The door to his right seemed to open silently and swiftly, pulled apart from its frame and tearing his eyes away from the ceiling in the process. He stiffened, lurching forward from the couch to seem less casual, but there wasn’t time to put on an act.  
A tall man in a blue suit, too professional to be anyone but a therapist, smiled warmly at Will. His mouth creased at the corners, laugh lines betraying his age becoming highly apparent.

A breath caught somewhere in Will’s throat, a sudden dryness that reminded him that he should have thought of how to introduce himself, or at the very least considered how he would go about this situation, take the necessary precautions to limit any feelings of unpreparedness, or simply feeling like a guinnea pig. He’d never really done this before, not like this anyway.

“Mr. Graham.”

The accent carried Will’s name with surprising grace. His smile was friendly, though the surname fell from his mouth with opposite emotion. A very formal greeting accompanied by a smile that Will saw as simply required, nothing more.

Will found himself blinking a few times, harder than anticipated, in an attempt to bring about some kind of coherent sentence. The doctor opened his palm out flat to the room behind him, stepping out of the doorway to make room. An invitation. Will cleared his throat and pushed off of the couch quickly, trying not to waste anymore time than he already had.

The worst thing he thought he could do was seem non-neurotypical, more so than he already felt.

Walking past Dr. Lector into his office was different to say the least. The room had an air about it, relief, or maybe it was just Will, finally reaching his destination, no more waiting rooms swirling with nervousness and hesitation.  
Will hadn’t seen the other man’s smile fade as soon as he passed.

  
“There’s no need for nervousness Mr. Graham.” 

Leather, again. Smooth, stiff, but not uncomfortable. Hannibal took a seat in a chair just about identical to his, merely a few feet away. Sensible distance, Will thought.

“Although I do understand that this is your first time in therapy.”

The cringe, near wince, that soured Will’s face couldn’t have been hidden even if he’d wanted it to be. He sighed heavily, his hand wandering up to his ear to pull gently at the lobe.

“Yes, well,“ Will sighed as he began, “I figured this might be a decent change for me.” His response wasn’t genuine, true to how he felt. He hoped it passed under the doctor’s radar.  
It occurred to him just then that his first words spoken to the man who is supposed to be his therapist were nervous, not even a formal introduction on his part, just shared, hesitant information.

“Well I— I think it could help me…” his voice was a little more rushed than it had to be, anxiety flushing words out of him quicker than air, “...figure some things out.”

A reassuring, lazy, smile was met with another that was far too familiar. Familiar in the sense that it felt like a formality, like holding the door open for him, or using his last name when first names would suffice.

Hannibal looked like he was about to speak, Will spoke first, his reluctant smile wavering.

“And please, I’d prefer Will.”

His dark brown eyes felt like they were boring holes in Will’s skin, piercing through his cheeks and his lips as they studied every feature.  
His mind flooded with anxieties, knowing he was being studied, feeling like every movement was cataloged, undoubtedly archived for later.

Like a bug in a jar.

He’s a patient, he realized, and the act of reevaluating his self image that came with it was unnerving. Defining himself now in this moment, fully, as nothing more than a patient, a subject, an object of analysis and ridicule.

“Of course. If you would be more comfortable with first names then feel free to use mine.” Will watched as he pulled a little book, probably a journal, and a pen from his side table. 

Will’s smile was reluctant, his response even more so. “I don’t recall your name, actually.” 

He looked from the roof to Hannibal in contemplation, only for a few seconds before a pale palm was shoved in his line of sight, tearing his eyes away from their post on the ceiling.  
Dark eyes, piercing, stared into his, his mouth turned up and an all-too-perfect smile emerged.

“Hannibal Lector.”

  
The session was a lot like he’d imagined it, yet different at the same time. He pictured therapy to be something along the lines of blank rooms, formal and fake smiles filled with sympathy, asking him ‘and how does that make you feel’. And he didn’t feel as though he was entirely off, but this was different.

“Often, when we forget how to manage particularly strong emotions as they come to us,” he repositioned, moving his leg to rest over his knee, “getting lost in the moment isn’t difficult by any means, especially when it’s accompanied by more...” he thought for a moment, but Will watched and he didn’t see it as true thought. He saw a courtesy pause, “...primal urges.”

Will scoffed and looked to the large window beside them, but it wasn’t an offended one. More so at the fact that he was hearing it like this, just the way he didn’t want to, from someone he was actually paying to aid him.

He gave a withdrawn smile, not even bearing teeth, and his mouth twitched for a moment, contemplating his next words. “Hannibal, I don’t believe there’s much difference in urges of the conventional primal persuasion, and urges in other forms.”

Hannibal’s eyebrows seemed to raise, intrigue, from the looks of it. “What do you mean exactly?”

“Well…“ he paused and his face twisted, frustrated mostly as he looked for the right words, “It’s not as though our actions are uncontrollable. We aren’t driven by animalistic instincts, and so to call them primal would be denoting the thoughts that precede them, the effort they demand.” He cocked his head to the side at his own point being made as he presented it. “I think such trivial concepts as to what defines something voluntary and involuntary in regards to my— my issues are unnecessary.” He started to continue but stopped, effectively pressing his lips together to act as a dam for spewing opinions.

“I just don’t think it’s appropriate to call any of my ‘urges’—“ he pumped the air with his fingers mockingly, “—uncontrollable.”

He let his hands fall back into his lap, the air between him and the other man becoming painfully silent, swimming with unnecessary words and information that he’d so casually thrown about, like he could almost see tense and anxious streaks swirling around them.

Hannibal raised his eyebrows. “So, you would argue that sexual urges are not primal?”

That familiar cringe, close to a painful wince, that crossed his features… Will would almost prefer the courteous and withdrawn demeanor he’d been given as opposed to blunt statements like that.

“I’m not saying that my sexual urges aren’t born from… a primal need, but referring to it that way implies that I’m animalistic, devolved.” He paused for a moment as emotions ran across his face. Hesitant ones, mostly.

Will wouldn’t in a million years consider himself very far from animalistic, but self image wasn’t something he’d cared much about, although that didn’t mean he wanted it to lower to levels previously untouched, considering himself ‘devolved’ or basing his own emotions around the idea of ‘animalistic’ didn’t feel right, especially when it came to voicing them.

He locked eyes with Hannibal, a smirk dawned on his face with each word. “And I don’t consider myself devolved, Doctor Lecter.”

  
“Satyriasis is more common than one would think.”

Oh, the recognition wasn’t the issue. Seeing the problem was easy and he had no issue with that. But the attempted treatment, advice given to alleviate the problem, was cringeworthy to him on a whole new level.

“Some would even place it in similar categories to substance addiction, though I believe—“

He talked more through his process of diagnosis than he had when he’d introduced himself, making himself more of a man that sticks to business and only really thrives with patients when he’s treating them as just that— patients.  
Will stared on as he talked, watched as he steepled his fingers and gave his professional diagnosis. Will already knew everything that he was saying, maybe with the exception of a few facts here and there, though he simply bit his tongue and listened.

Listened, and imagined.

Will would have loved to say that the session with Hannibal Lecter made him feel better, lighter, possibly given him more of an understanding of himself. It didn’t. 

Going home that night and laying in his bed, dogs scattered about the disheveled sheets, staring at the ceiling as he contemplated the situation, gave him time to think. It was humorous to him, in an odd way, how he’d sought after therapy, hardly even obtained it if not for the intervention of a good friend and her connections. He never even wanted it, not entirely, and certainly hadn’t thought himself to be someone who would need it, let alone benefit from it.  
He felt like this provided more intrigue than answers. The hour with Hannibal felt long, having information and advice thrown at him, more questions that deviated from the cliche ‘and how does that make you feel’ narrative than he’d been expecting. It got him thinking, but more about how this would play out rather than how he would benefit from it.

Pure intrigue.

Perhaps, therapy would help in its own ways, Will decided. Though it didn’t seem to provide any aid at face value.

While laying in bed, staring at a textured ceiling with sweat-stained clothes, thoughts swirling with images and situations provided by an active and obsessive imagination, his hands wandered south, finding that ‘primal urge’ described to him as being more real than he’d be willing to credit.  
The whole situation seemed a little too rewarding to give up, if not rewarding in the ways Hannibal had imagined, then certainly in the ways Will had.  


Day two came, and with it was the absence of yesterday’s anxieties. He arrived at the waiting room as he had before, that was once again empty. Sitting on the leather sofa and kicking his feet about like an impatient toddler only made this entire thing seem more and more unnecessary. Waiting for Hannibal when he obviously had no current or following engagements made Will sit back and wonder just what the doctor was doing behind that door.

The imagination— a depraved one at that, as he would suspect— gave way to pleasant scenarios that he could picture precisely down to the last detail.

Will’s understanding of the word ‘obsessive’ was entirely different than the ones commonly seen. For one thing, he didn’t imagine that the act of being ‘obsessed’ had to be reserved for one thing. Why not be obsessed with many things? Smells, tastes, feelings. Everyone has their kryptonite, one thing that makes them tick the wrong way, or the right way.

Will would imagine that this, and Dr. Lector, would undoubtedly become a new obsession. Assuming it hadn’t already.

  
“Yesterday, you told me that you didn’t consider your urges to be uncontrollable,” his legs were crossed professionally, his stance in the chair imperious in ways that made Will shiver, “which almost implies that they aren’t a problem to you.”

Will thought for a moment, apparently longer than Hannibal had felt necessary. He seemed to let a little more interest peek through his guise of professional intrigue, of only being interested in the necessary information. Will wondered just how far Hannibal’s interest in him extended.

“Do you consider them problems, Will?”

Will saw it as a slip, and the small smile that graced Hannibal’s features made him even more sure of it being so.

“I think of my urges as being an alternative state of mind— of living. Not necessarily a problem.” He interlaced his fingers above his chest, elbows perched on the arms of the chair. “They are simply an unfortunate side effect of my ‘condition’, one that I’m now seeking help to alleviate.”

His tone was more pragmatic than it had been previously, betraying the fact that his actual feelings about his ‘condition’ were much different than what he had let on, or what he felt he was supposed to say. He felt like he was reciting a speech. Hannibal certainly thought it was rehearsed.

Hannibal perked up a bit, as much as he could given his obvious unwillingness to show much emotion aside from professional interest. “You say that almost as if you would rather continue to indulge in your condition rather than find a way to fix it, for your own convenience.” 

Will had to smile at that, look to the window and force his disagreeing emotion out as a grin. “I wouldn’t call my ‘condition’ itself the issue.” His voice trailed off as he looked about the room for a moment, his eyes ultimately landing on the doctor across from him.

Every detail of the other man taken in and savored in perverse ways, only further proving his point in his own mind.

“But its effects are…“ he sighed, dropping his head a little, “unfortunately overwhelming.”

“In what ways do they overwhelm you, Will?”

He had to know what he was doing by asking that. Will looked at him still, and his expression changed to accommodate his extreme reluctance to answer that question, despite having been anticipating it. He smirked and dropped his attention, looking at his hands for a moment.

Hannibal waited for a response until Will abruptly stood up from his chair. He wandered around their sitting area, his hands in his pockets, maybe drifting them across the occasional statue or causeless desk item, looking more like he was exploring than anything, gauging his surroundings, evaluating his predicament.

“It’s overwhelming because I cannot act on them.”

Hannibal received that as a blank and withdrawn statement, and Will felt that it was a rather obvious one.

“Then how do you usually deal with it?”

Hannibal craned his neck up, looking to the side at will as he crossed into his line of sight, stepping in front of the large windows, cast directly in their overwhelming light. He pressed his lips together for a moment, his features the picture of concentration.

“With my hands.”

He mumbled his response in a way that could have sounded ashamed, but it wasn’t. His lowered voice was a courtesy, the tone one takes when sharing a dirty little secret, though Will didn’t consider it dirty. He looked to a bookshelf by the entrance, feeling a bit betrayed by the circumstance, as if he hadn’t expected to actually open up to his literal therapist.   
Will had his selection of partners in the past but due to his unethical tendencies, ones that people often avoided in relationships, well, nothing ever stuck. He was never satisfied with what people gave him. He wanted it, lived off of it, but he always found himself feeling misunderstood. Wanting more and more, something beyond what they could provide or what morals dictated they should provide. 

When Will looked back to Hannibal, he seemed unreadable for a moment, like his emotions were forming a new outlook. The possibility of what that outlook could be made Will physically shudder.

“But you’re never satisfied, are you?”

Will only laughed. He lowered himself back in his chair, jerking it as he sat to move just a bit closer to Hannibal.

“That depends on how you define satisfaction.”

Hannibal raised his chin at that, lips pressed together to prompt Will.

“I mean there’s— there’s temporary satisfaction, something that feels good in the moment,” his eyes wandered over the Doctor, like he’d done around the room, except this time, they had direction. “And then there’s long term. I would say my issue is finding the long term.”

Hannibal nodded his head in agreement, or more so understanding. Will only anticipated the Doctor’s response, and it’s very professional, clinical nature.

“I see.” Will had to wonder if he really did, though. “Your expectations are higher than what your partners can provide. You find more release in your own hands than at the attention of others.”

“More or less.” It was more, though there was less he was speaking on. It’s true, Will’s hyper-sexual nature overshadowed everything, every interaction. He constantly evaluated his circumstances, which was just his nature, but his second nature, his ‘condition’, made it impossible for him not to imagine each scenario with the possibility of becoming a sexual encounter. It was hard to see anyone as not being a potential partner.

“Do you find that you truly prefer yourself sexually rather than having another person?” His tone rose up a bit, and Will fed on it, ate it up as potential, as he usually did.

“Yes.”

“Then, I take it that fantasies provide more relief than people.”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t a question, but Will treated it as if it was. The prying questions hurt at first, explaining himself felt like peeling a wrapper off of an object, digging his nails into the glue and the plastic and cringing when he couldn’t get it to come off right, his ‘venting’ never feeling like it did justice to his true emotions. But now, he was beginning to enjoy it.

A game to him almost, dancing around Hannibal Lecter until he found the right steps, until they both fell into a desirable pace.

An unfamiliar and demanding rhythm to their steps.

The doctor’s demeanor had changed in a second, looking to the window as he prepared a new evaluation or some statement or question. It didn’t matter. Will saw a proposition in how their eyes met, how Hannibal lifted his chin high enough that Will couldn’t help but imagine how it would feel to be looked down upon by him.  
He gripped the arms of his chair, imagining the feeling of having Hannibal stare down at him along the bridge of his nose, Will on his knees below him, thinking of himself as being beneath the other man both physically and figuratively, clutching at the fabric of his pants and the leather of his belt like a druggie begging for a fix.

A part of him hoped Hannibal had seen it in his eyes when they stared into one another’s.

“Do you fantasize about everyone you meet, Will?”

He laughed again, softer this time, more tension behind it. “Hard not to.”

Hannibal turned his head down a bit, giving Will more anticipation. He felt like he knew what was coming, or what he wanted to come.

“I presume, even me?” His question and the tone that came with it made Will think that Hannibal had betrayed some kind of oath, some contract to remain unattached to his patients. Because Will found himself feeling very, very attached to the doctor right now.

“Should I not, Dr. Lecter?” The response was barely above a whisper, his fingers digging into the arm of the chair with every ounce of restraint he had in him.

“No.” A faint whisper of a smile crossed his face as he spoke, “As your current psychotherapist, I wouldn’t advise you to deny yourself any forms of coping.” The response was a lot more professional than Will thought it would be, but that didn’t change anything. “Be it indulging in your condition, or not.”

Before Will could respond, maybe redirect the conversation where he really wanted it to go, Hannibal spoke out. His tone was flat and controlled, as if he was giving the usual diagnosis, like it was professional, methodical advice.

“Describe them to me.”

Will wanted to hear just that, or something to that effect, but even he had to do the tiniest of double-takes. At least ask why Hannibal would ask that of him given the dynamic he’s supposed to have with Will.

“I-I don’t—“ he paused and took a breath, steadying himself. “Why is that information something you’d be compelled to hear?” He furrowed his brow in confusion as he questioned.

“In honesty, your condition renders normal relationships unattainable, providing more fuel for fantasies than real life.” Will would like to say that the surprising presence of Hannibal’s controlled and unfazed demeanor unsettled him, especially with what he was asking of Will, but it didn’t. “Perhaps acknowledging the differences between a fantasy and reality would help you better understand yourself, even to let go of the fantasies altogether.”

“You want me to describe them?” His brow was knitted together tightly at the question. He asked Hannibal, but it was more of a recitation of what the Doctor had already said, maybe just giving him the opportunity to rethink his request.

Hannibal’s quick flash of a toothless grin betrayed the guise of having Will’s best and therapeutic interest at heart.

“Precisely.”

Oh, this was a whole new game. This was a whole new game in a whole new park in an entirely different state. The thing about fantasies is that they are entirely apart from reality, and Will could acknowledge that about his own with no problem, but this felt about as good as a fantasy coming true.  
The doctor’s request wasn’t entirely implying any ulterior motives. If any normal person would hear it, it would seem counterproductive, but not unethical. For Will though, he couldn’t help but love the undeniably sexual undertones that this created between them.

And he was loving every second of it.

“I can imagine your hands,” Will looked down from the Doctor’s eyes, the length of his arms and his palms, so gracefully placed in his lap, “wrapped around my throat.” He smiled as he spoke and with every ounce tension building inside him. “Your nails tearing and squeezing my flesh, pulling me in and out of consciousness while I can only… succumb to it. Go limp under your touch. Maybe beg for mercy.” He said the last bit so casually, shrugging one shoulder and raising a brow at it, like it was some small detail in a story to consider. 

He had to push this further. It was too rewarding not to.

“Doctor,” his tone quickly rose as he began, “I believe I could better show you.” It should have been a question, asking consent, but it wasn’t. It was more of a statement, said with an anticipating smile, even a flash of teeth. 

Acting like a hungry dog, asking to rip into the steak wasn’t a thought that would shadow the threshold of his mind.

Will pushed up and out of his chair with no rush in his movements. The distance between them was hardly a barrier to consider. He would cross it, whether it proved difficult or not, whether Hannibal bore resistance to his advances or showed complacency. Will wouldn’t imagine himself to be the only patient of Lecter’s cowed into revealing sensitive information under the guise of professional interest— maybe it's time the good doctor gets a taste of how it feels to be invaded.   
He approached the Doctor’s chair and Hannibal could practically smell the fever on him, how he walked with care like he had a brimming cup full of sexual tension. Will’s hand braced itself of the arm of the chair and Hannibal uncrossed his legs to accommodate the position Will was clearly aiming for.

“I’ve imagined this too.” He crawled in Hannibal’s lap, cramping his legs uncomfortably between the doctor’s thighs and his chair. “It’s not nearly as…” he thought for a moment, lowering himself further, “explicit as one would desire.”

Will’s face was mere inches from Hannibal’s. Hannibal had to take note of the younger man’s audacity to act so bravely on his urges. He wasn’t about to deny Will, in fact, as Will found a place for himself over his lap, like a puppy asking for attention, It was obvious to him that he was more than willing to do whatever he had to in order to receive it. And that fascinated Hannibal.

“But it does suffice.”

He surveyed the doctor’s face but he wasn’t searching for approval as he moved, it was more for reciprocation.  
Hannibal watched too as Will searched, imagining that the young man didn’t consider himself to be nearly as transparent as he is.

Will ground his hips down unceremoniously. His hand ran along Hannibal’s shoulder, bracing himself while he closed the distance between their mouths. The doctor grabbed Will by the throat and pulled him closer, allowing him to indulge in the fantasy he’d described a moment ago.  
Will groaned into the kiss as he felt Hannibal’s hand on his neck. Everything in him wanted to scream ‘tighter’ but his mouth was occupied. Hannibal’s lips were rough, chapped, despite the stern placidness of his exterior— his mouth likely being his only coarse attribute— but his tongue was a welcome surprise. He pulled back and cocked his head to the side to have better access to the other man’s mouth, their pace quickening with it. Hannibal could only imagine what delusions that Will had created in his mind, fantasies that he had run through over and over again and now expected him to act out on simple instinct.

Hannibal pulled back from the heated meander of their tongues, tightening his grip around Will’s throat enough that his knuckles blanched. Will’s lips parted reflexively in a choked gasp. For a moment, abandoning the guise of reserved and methodical seemed so enticing, just so he could see how the other man would react, just to see what would happen.

“You are delusional.”

It felt like a blow to the ego for Will, or at least, he felt like it should have been, somewhere in his mind. Though a sick part of him liked being abased.

He tried to speak and the sound died deep in his throat from the pressure around his neck. Hannibal could feel the vibrations through his fingertips as Will struggled to form his words, choking on the external pressure against his arteries and his own saliva. Will simply mouthed, voiceless, his response.

A silent ‘I am’ and Hannibal knew he could do whatever he wanted.

His grip hardly lessened as he pulled Will closer to him by the throat, bringing their mouths mere inches apart, enough that Will could spew labored breaths over Hannibal’s lips, but not enough for contact. Enough for Hannibal to feel entirely in control and Will to revel in how good it made him feel to be so vulnerable. The palm placed so tenderly around his neck squeezed, its veins popping, knuckles whitening, and Will’s eyes practically rolling in their sockets.  
Hannibal didn’t need to have his hand around Will’s neck to be in control and he could see that much from here.

Will got so carried away in the simple pleasure of someone helping him indulge in a fantasy that he neglected to consider the fact that this was in fact reality, and that maybe it wouldn’t go as smoothly as he’d imagined it.

Hannibal tilted his chin up and lifted his hand to Will’s face, running his thumb over his eyelid, lifting it, like he was checking a patient’s pupils. It brought Will out of his oxygen-deprived euphoria for just long enough to make eye contact with Hannibal, his eyes half-lidded, as seductive as he could muster despite looking like desperate filth. 

The pressure that he was placing around Will’s throat came to a frighteningly sudden halt, his hand acting as a force instead to push Will off of him, sending the other man down to the cool floor in front of his chair.  
He was dazed for a moment, the air having been choked out of him and then the remains of his last breath knocked out as he hit the floor. His eyes flicked up to Hannibal immediately in shock, heaving out raspy coughs and running his palm over his throat, feeling where Hannibal’s hand had been seconds ago. He hoped for a moment that it would bruise. 

Hannibal stood from his chair gracefully, straightening his coat at the collar and smoothing out his pants, ridding himself of Will’s imprints on his clothes. He tilted his head to the side, lips pressed together in an unfortunate frown that didn’t appear to have any real emotion behind it.

“Reality can often hit us at the most unexpected of times.” His arm extended, gesturing vaguely to Will. “Has reality hit you enough, Will?”

He coiled upwards, propping himself up on his elbows. The question came out clearly, but it fell on deaf ears. If not deaf, then willingly clogged. As Will looked up at Hannibal, what he could see was a powerful figure over him, imperious, demanding. In fact, that’s all he saw, all he was willing to see. Not the man beneath it nor his questionable intentions. 

He simply smiled, and rasped out. “We could all stand to— to have a bit of reality beaten into us.” He wiped saliva off his lips, slick on his palm, and decided he’d rather imagine it as Hannibal’s than his own.

“I prefer not to beat my patients.” The tone of his voice was nearly facetious.

“Oh?” He quirked his brow at the statement. “Do you find it to be too unethical?” Will slumped back on his elbows, letting his head fall back a bit and casting half-lidded eyes up at the doctor. “Because I think you’ve well passed ethical.”

The cynical tone made Hannibal glare down at him, finding audacious patients to be rather unpleasant. As far as he’d seen anyway.

Hannibal looked over Will’s face and found himself feeling pity in how he’d squirmed around his hand, how desperate he was for something as simple as to be denied the right to breathe, as if that was enough for him.

Will’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, feeling a new level of exposure with the doctor standing between his legs looking down on him, not unlike his fantasy.

Hannibal knew how working with one’s hands was more personal than working with objects. This was no different.

He lifted his foot, placing the black dress shoe against Will’s crotch, toeing the undeniable bulge. Will gasped, throwing his head back as Hannibal began moving his foot up and down. His mouth agape, knees in the air, spreading wider as if it would allow better access, he began to whine. Hannibal’s slow rhythm, or lack thereof, had Will’s eyes closed hard, his mouth clamped shut as he rocked underneath the shoe, rutting his hips up against it. The sensations went from pleasurable to painful, and then back again, like Hannibal wanted this to hurt and feel good on equal parts— probably hurt a bit more. Will’s breathy moans filled the room, echoing perfectly in his head as all he could hear was himself and the rustling of fabric. Hannibal’s shoe put more and more pressure on his aching cock beneath his pants, making it hard to enjoy it when he was both desperate for more, as well as seeking to lessen the pain.

When a toe turned to a heel, his head shot forward, hanging over his chest as his brow twisted. Hannibal’s ruthless up and down rhythm made Will groan, pressing both his thighs together around the shoe, knees meeting in the middle. An attempt to slow him down, to no avail. It just rocked him further. All he could do was rut into the pressure and yet try his best to lessen it where it hurt, though both attempts yielded very minimal results. His elbows fell out from behind him, leaving him flat on his back. He was a stuttering mess, his words a string of curses and pleas, begging for more while simultaneously asking for less.  
The situation didn’t seem like much in the way of helpful, certainly not for Will’s condition. The stimulation on his cock through his jeans was enough for the high to build, a pressure welling up inside his gut that made his back arch upwards from the floor, his mouth open and gaping in a mounting scream. 

Hannibal found his lip between his teeth just watching someone squirm under his boot. The pleasurable power high that it gave him was better than any sex he could ask for in this moment.

Will quickly reached down and gripped Hannibal’s ankle, whether it was to guide his movements, stop them altogether, or simply put more pressure on himself, he didn’t know. Though he pressed his knees together still, parting them just enough to let his hand squeeze painfully hard around Hannibal’s leg, pushing against his rhythmic movements as his orgasm came closer. As it did, his already labored breathing and breathy moans turned to a higher pitch, swallowing in anticipation while moans squeezed passed his lips. His teeth gritted together.

Just as his voice began to leave him, his breath hitching in his throat from the approaching peak of his high, Hannibal’s foot quickly retracted. It pulled back hard from within Will’s palm and caused him to cry out when the sensations stopped. His hips bucked into the air without his consent, pressing his thighs together and not bothering to pull back his hand as it was about the only thing providing any sort of stimulation. He felt like his stomach was on fire, a painful lack of pressure on his erection making him whimper and cast a pitiful look up to Hannibal. With his pupils blown wide, his gaze bordered on begging, his mouth covered in saliva that had begun running of its own volition due to Will’s pleasured slackjaw. 

The look on Hannibal’s face was indifferent. Will would like to imagine it was just reserved, and he was right, to a certain degree, but right now, all he could think of was how painfully hard he was and how his only means of solving that problem had left him.

“Reality, “ Hannibal began, “Hits us at the most unexpected of times.” His tone was flat, informant and resigned. “Yours has been a long time coming.”

Will just looked on in what he felt was betrayal. Not betrayal entirely, simply upset with being denied what he wanted, what he needed. Hannibal though, stared down at him like it was a minor inconvenience.

“Let this be a lesson to you, Will.” He stepped around Will’s spot on the floor, moving to stand beside his head. “Fantasies—“ he knelt down to his knees, bringing his face closer to the other man’s, “—are not reality.”

Will simply gazed up rather dumbly with glossy eyes, pupils the size of dinner plates, his breathing still quick, and he felt like he could almost taste the moans still lingering on his tongue right alongside Hannibal’s saliva. He looked almost expectant, wondering why Hannibal would do all this if not for a sensible purpose.

Hannibal let a smirk slip past his lips. “Although, your issues are deeply ingrained inside your mind. Fixing them could prove rather difficult. It may take multiple sessions, likely much like this one.”

That was a promise. No— an invitation. Will couldn’t think past the aching in his groin and all the pressure he’d built up which was now quickly dying. He huffed a breathy sigh that seemed almost annoyed. “Continued sessions, then, I take it?”

Hannibal’s smirk darkened, a glimpse of teeth for a split second. “Exactly.”

Will tried to muster up a smile, giving instead a worn grin of approval and a sarcastic laugh.

“I’ll clear my schedule then, Doctor.”

**Author's Note:**

> There was meant to be a second part to this with some actual, properly written sex, but well... maybe a sequel sometime soon is in order. 
> 
> Yell at me about any mistakes please!


End file.
